By Monica McKey / Sun Archives
I was born in 1948, just three years after the close of World War II, and yet my personal life was never directly affected by it. My mother often used the expression “after the war,” referring to WWII, as though everything had changed after that cataclysmic event. But to my knowledge, my family never lost a loved one or even a close friend in the conflict.
I have watched with interest – and often tears – various programs commemorating WWII. But it wasn’t until 1993 that I had a very personal experience relating to the war. It was during a visit to Paris, where I had spent a year teaching back in 1972. At that time, I had encountered two very different attitudes among the French: Younger people expressed much distrust, even anger, at America’s involvement in the Vietnam War (a feeling I shared); but older people often told me of enduring feelings of gratitude toward the American soldiers who joined in the battle against Hitler.
When my late husband, John, and I traveled to France in 1993, we packed light, taking with us only what we considered bare essentials – among them, comfortable walking shoes, a detailed itinerary (largely ignored), and John’s favorite hat. One day, as we were standing outside a small museum on a side street in Paris, consulting our ever-present subway map, a jolly Frenchman wearing a jaunty cap approached us and, in a booming voice, greeted us and explained how he had recognized “a fellow artist” in my husband (for this gentleman, the wearing of a hat apparently turned a regular guy into an “artiste”). When I explained that my husband wasn’t really an artist, he just liked wearing hats, the Frenchman and I began to chat – an opportunity I welcomed to polish up my rusty French.
The moment I mentioned that we were Americans, he launched into a speech I will never forget.
“You are Americans? Then, I want to tell you something and I want you to listen very closely, because you may not hear this very often. I come from the region of St. Mère Église, and on June 6, 1944, some American boys parachuted into my village. They died so that I could grow up and live to know love and have a family. And I want you to remember that, in all of France, there is at least one person who has never forgotten them. Each year, I go to the American Cemetery and pray over their graves. They are not forgotten!”
Through my tears, all I could do was manage a very soggy, “Merci, Monsieur.” He shook hands with both of us, said in a voice warm with sincerity – this time in heavily accented English – “Goodbye, my friends!” and disappeared into the crowded street.
It was several minutes before I could find my voice to explain to a bewildered John – who had understood only the man’s last three words – what had happened. We considered trying to pursue the man and spend more time with him, at least tell him what his message had meant to us. But he had left as quickly as he had come.
John and I spent the next half hour or so sitting on a nearby bench, unable to shake the emotions we both were feeling. So many thoughts kept pouring over us – the gratitude of the Frenchman and others like him, the courage of the young American soldiers whose memory he still honored, the tragic loss of so many lives, the despair brought on by Hitler, and above all, the horror of war. Our chance encounter with this man, this flamboyant “artiste,” touched us deeply and was never forgotten.
Thank you for sharing this touching moment in France. I, too, learned how embracing and grateful the French are toward our Allies when I traveled with a small elderly contingent of WWII veterans to the South of France. On a most monumental excursion of ten days, we (the veterans, their families and me) traveled through forty villages which linked the soldiers with the 65th anniversary and then the 70th anniversary of the liberation of these villages where they had marched all the way from St. Tropez to Strausburg all those years ago. Literally thousands of French men, women and children lined the roads waving American flags and celebrating our men in a most remarkable manner. Thousands! And all of them repeated over and over again, ‘We will never forget; we will never forget your gift of freedom!” Moments like these are never forgotten and have formed the basis for much of my writing.
Carole, what a gratifying — and overwhelming (in a good way) — experience that must’ve been for all of you! Thanks for that story. I see from your website that you lived in Austin, TX. I’m from Houston originally, now living in Sonoma since 1981. I’m intrigued by your book, A Cup of Redemption. Will pick up a copy at our wonderful Readers’ Books.
Very nice & heartfelt story.
I too have thought that I never lost one to war even though my grandfather was in WWI, my father & uncle in WWII, my brother’s & I all served(Honorably)
in the 1960’s with one brother going to combat in North Vietnam.
That brother was lost last July 3rd with kidney failure & COPD as a direct result of Angent Orange so my family & I have too lost someone to the war.
Heading down to observe Memorial Day in a different light.
Semper Paratus! Jerry Bourne